


If the Shoe Fits

by timetospy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Car Sex, Established Relationship, Frottage, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Shoes, but those are both true, extravagant gifts, not as kinky as that sounds, super posh Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetospy/pseuds/timetospy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is disgusted by the state of the shoes Greg has to wear to work. And comes up with a solution. The consequences of his actions, however, are not what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the Shoe Fits

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt I received from [hubblegleeflower](http://hubblegleeflower.tumblr.com) on tumblr.  
> Mystrade: they make fun of each other's shoes.
> 
> As always, thank you to my beta reader and cheerleader [jordankaine](http://jordankaine.tumblr.com) for her support! This would have never seen daylight without your help.

“Really, Gregory, they’re atrocious.”

“Oi, you, what’s wrong with my shoes?”

Greg Lestrade was lounging in Mycroft Holmes’ flat, his stocking feet propped up on a leather ottoman that Mycroft had assured him would not be insulted by his four-year-old, bargain-brand socks. Mycroft was currently scrutinizing his work shoes, and finding them lacking in every conceivable way.

“The soles are broken down, the uppers… that’s not even genuine leather, is it? Oh, good heavens.”

“Of course it’s not… Do you even… No, of course you don’t. I’m not going to run after murderers in £700 shoes.”

“Well, you’re certainly not going to run anywhere in these,” Mycroft said, plucking one from the entry rug between his index finger and thumb. Not only were they nearly falling apart, they were also brown, and were utterly lacking in any style whatsoever. They perhaps still functioned to protect his feet, but even that was debatable at this point. It just would not do.

“They’re perfectly decent shoes, Myc,” Greg replied, sighing.

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with his other hand. What Gregory considered ‘decent’ and what actually constituted shoes were entirely separate issues, and Mycroft wasn’t sure he could reconcile them. He dropped the offending shoe back onto the rug.

“Gregory, these barely qualify as footwear in this condition. Please.”

Greg threw his arms up and groaned in exasperation.

“Well, I can’t very well afford those on a copper’s salary, can I?” he said, pointing at the black oxfords resting comfortably alongside Greg’s work shoes. Mycroft was not going to volunteer the amount of money he’d spent on the shoes in question. It was decidedly higher than the £700 Gregory had cited earlier.

Greg had a point, however, in that his salary minus the child maintenance he paid did not allow him the luxury of quality footwear. This called for drastic action. Mycroft plucked his phone from his jacket pocket and dialled.

“Yes, this is Mycroft Holmes. Yes. No, for my partner. Yes. This afternoon, if… That would be most excellent. Thank you.”

“Should I ask?”

Mycroft gave him a vaguely condescending smile that usually meant Greg was being adorably normal, and Greg was having none of it.

“I’ll wipe that grin right off your face,” he said. He rose and stalked over, grabbed Mycroft by the back of his neck and brought him down for a quick-but-intense kiss.

“Git,” Greg mumbled into Mycroft’s lips.

“Mmm,” Mycroft kissed the corner of Greg’s mouth. “And yet you stay. Curious, that.”

“I really don’t know what I’m thinking.”

 

*************

The sleek black car purred along, seeming to part traffic around it, and Greg was half-convinced it actually did. As it manoevered its way through London, Greg became increasingly suspicious of their destination. It still wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Mycroft had found some tiny, exclusive restaurant, or perhaps a small screen cinema with those obscure independent films that Greg had actually begun to enjoy. But it became increasingly clear that they were headed into Mayfair, and subsequently, Savile Row.

"Myc, where are we going?” Greg asked.

“It’s a surprise,” Mycroft said, a small, self-amused grin playing around the edges of his mouth.

“That is actually terrifying.” Greg grinned as he spoke and squeezed Mycroft’s thigh.

“Oh for goodness sake, Gregory,” Mycroft admonished, but the grin caught hold and soon both Mycroft and Greg were chuckling.

“But, seriously, where?”

“Gregory, you are a detective with Scotland Yard, surely you can...detect your way through this?”

“Well, yeah, I could,” Greg said. “But it’d be loads easier if you just told me.”

“And also exceedingly dull.”

Greg rolled his eyes.

“Please don’t tell me we’re here for the reason I think we’re here.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied. “I won’t.”

“Mycroft, this isn’t funny.”  

Greg had become somewhat accustomed to the luxury in which Mycroft lived, he let himself be treated because it seemed to make Mycroft happy, but he drew the line at Mycroft Holmes purchasing his clothes. He was a grown man, and this was ridiculous.

“I only request you reserve judgement until you’ve had a fitting,” Mycroft said as the car pulled to a stop in front of a white stone and steel facade. There were three steps up to the entry, and suits that looked like they cost more than a year’s salary hung on mannequins in the window. And there, lined up under the suit they were probably supposed to match, were three pairs of shoes.

“Christ, Myc, I don’t…” Greg wiped a hand down his face. “I’ll buy myself some new shoes, alright?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve an appointment with Gerard, and it would be incredibly rude to waste the opportunity.”

Greg slid across the seat and exited the car, scrutinizing the shop’s facade. There was no name above the door, which made Greg wonder if this was even more posh than normal, and he swallowed hard. Mycroft unfolded onto the street just behind him, a hand resting gently at the small of his back. He leaned down a bit and whispered in Greg’s ear.

“You’ll be fine. Gerard is lovely, and I’ve been a customer here for years.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” Mycroft pointed to the shop’s door with his umbrella, and Greg stepped forward.

Greg took a deep breath as Mycroft opened the door for him, then stepped inside.

The interior was all warm wood and smelled of polish and woodsy cologne, with a few chairs and a counter. There were three doors along the left-hand wall, each marked with a roman numeral. There were displays of ties and socks and pins and cufflinks and absolutely nothing had a price tag. Greg suddenly felt very shabby indeed. But before he could say anything to Mycroft, a man appeared from behind a door in the far wall that Greg hadn’t even registered existed.

“Mr. Holmes!” the man broke into a wide grin, his large mouth containing far too many teeth. He stopped behind the counter and Mycroft herded Greg toward it.

“Gerard,” Mycroft said, inclining his head. “May I introduce my partner, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, of the Major Crimes division.”

“Ah!”

Greg offered his hand, and Gerard shook it firmly. Well, at least he had a good handshake. That was something.

“Now, you are obviously here for shoes. Shall we?” Gerard pulled a large wooden box out from behind the counter, then gestured to one of the large green leather chairs.

“Relax,” Mycroft whispered as they turned.

“Oh, sure, easy for you to say,” Greg hissed back. “You probably pop in here every other week for a new tie pin. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say.”

“Hello might be a good start, darling.”

Greg scoffed. It was one thing to maybe go out to dinner at an expensive restaurant, or go to a gallery, it was quite another to enter a shop for the express purpose of purchasing something that was way above his pay grade. There had to be some kind of ritual or something he wasn’t privy to, and he felt out of his depth and moorless, even with Myc standing right behind him, guiding him to a chair. It was one thing to have a couple of posh gits at the Yard, that was his turf and he was familiar with it, and knew where he stood. This was… Greg didn’t know what this was. And that was precisely the problem.

“Inspector Lestrade, sir.”

“Um, Greg. Yeah, hello.” Could he be any less prepared for this? Was Gerard even supposed to call him by his first name? Was that a thing? Did he just fuck up the introduction?

“Greg. Of course. Now…” Gerard motioned for Greg to sit, so Greg sat. Well, at least he hadn’t totally botched everything, apparently. So it was okay to have your...tailor? Was that what Gerard was? Whatever, Gerard could call him Greg, and that made things a bit easier, actually.

Gerard crouched expertly at Greg’s feet and slipped his weather-beaten work shoes off and gingerly set them aside. Greg instantly thought of his socks, of how his feet probably reeked, how there was a small threadbare patch at his heel that was going to turn into a hole soon if he wasn’t careful, and he could feel the flush in his cheeks.

“Glad you could come in the afternoon,” Gerard said as he pulled the tape measure from around his neck. If he noticed Greg’s socks, he gave no sign. “It’s always better for my measurements when you’ve been up and around. Usually have to add a bit on for the early morning appointments.”

Gerard wrapped the tape measure around the ball of Greg’s left foot, and jotted down the measurement in a notebook he pulled from the box. Then he measured around the bridge, and jotted that down. Then he repeated the process on the right foot, flipped the notebook closed and pulled out several pieces of plain paper and two foam blocks.

“Alright, Greg, I’m going to have you stand on this for a moment, left foot first.”

Greg threw Mycroft a questioning glance, but the bastard just smiled. He wondered if there was much more to this.

Gerard traced Greg’s foot onto the paper, then asked him to step into one of the foam blocks. Again, the process was repeated for the right foot.

“Excellent. Thank you, Greg. I’ll bring you the leather samples and design book, and you can make your selections!”

“Wait, you mean you… make these? Like, from scratch?”

Gerard raised an eyebrow, not at Greg, but at Mycroft, and Greg cracked his first smile since he’d walked into this shop.

“It was a surprise,” Mycroft said with a shrug.

“Hm,” Gerard said, then he turned back to Greg. “Yes, I do, as you say, ‘make them from scratch’ and as you will no doubt appreciate once I’ve finished these, the fit is immaculate, if I do say so myself. And with your profession, I will need to ensure that they are satisfactory for any… encounter you may face. Actually, that will be a nice change of pace from the City boys.”

Greg knew his mouth was hanging open, but at this point he couldn’t be arsed to care. Gerard set the box on the counter and produced two three-ring binders.

“This one has all the style elements,” Gerard tapped the appropriate binder. “Mix and match as you like. This one,” he pointed, “has the available leather colors and textures. I suggest refraining from suede, for obvious reasons. Mr. Holmes has excellent taste.”

Greg swore he saw Gerard wink before he slid the binders across the counter. “I’ll be in the back. Ring when you’ve made your selections.” He placed a small bell on the counter, turned and disappeared through the nearly-invisible door in the back wall, box wedged under his arm.

“You are trouble,” Greg said as he pulled his shoes back on. Mycroft merely shrugged and scooped the binders off the counter and brought them over to the green leather chair. He handed them to Greg, and sat primly on the arm, peering over Greg’s shoulder.

“I suggest we start with this one.”

Greg opened the ‘style’ binder and began leafing through the pages. He honestly had no idea what he was really looking at, aside from about seven hundred different options for what seemed to be the same shoe. There were photographs with all of them, examples of the designs that were explained in more technical language than Greg had the patience to learn. He paused for a moment on a pair of boots that reminded him of his younger, more rebellious self, then continued on, page after page after page of toe caps and brogues and laces and heels.

“I’ve no bloody clue what I’m even looking at anymore,” Greg said finally. "I'm no good at this, Myc. I just want something easy that won't draw too much attention at the Yard.”

“Then I suggest an oxford, so we’ll start there.”

“What about this one?” Greg pointed to a shoe that looked perfectly serviceable, not too different from what he currently had, as far as he could see.

“Oh, not brogues, darling. It smacks of...ambition.”

“Haven’t I seen these exact shoes in your closet?”

“For casual occasions. Garden parties and the like. Could go as casual as a Derby there, honestly. But certainly not appropriate for the office.“

“You… you have different shoes for parties?” Greg turned to look behind him at Mycroft. He knew enough to not wear trainers with a suit, but beyond that, wasn’t it just… personal style?

“Well, not specifically for parties. It’s all about -” Mycroft stopped abruptly and regarded Greg for a moment, his eyebrow raised. Greg had the distinct impression that he’d surprised the man, which was difficult to do, and he couldn’t quite understand how that had happened.

“Oh,” Mycroft said at last, a look of understanding dawning on his face. “Well,” he cleared his throat. “I… I think I may have misunderstood the context of this situation.” Mycroft stared at his hands for a moment, and Greg saw the blush creep up from under his collar and tinge the tips of his ears pink.

“Which is?”

“I was erroneously under the impression that your lack of quality attire was a product of a lack of time and funds on your part, which I was happy to supply. I fear I have misjudged that, and I have put you in a rather difficult position. Forgive me.”

Greg laughed. It was genuine, and lasted for possibly longer than was necessary, but it was so rare to see Mycroft be wrong about anything, and to have it be this… Greg dumped the binders onto the floor and pulled his mad bastard of a partner into his lap.

“Is that a nice way of saying I’m an uncultured swine?” Greg pressed his forehead against Mycroft’s. “Because you’d be right. I’ll admit it. So why don’t you teach me, yeah? And then I’ll know the right kind of shoes to wear to all these garden parties you’re invited to.”

He held Mycroft’s chin, pulling him down further into a chaste but lingering kiss.

“You should be angry with me. It was quite rude.”

“You’re right, it was, and I absolutely should. But I’m somehow not, so come on, show me what’s what, here.” Greg picked up the style binder. Mycroft still sat on his lap, seeming to have forgotten all propriety, and Greg couldn’t be arsed to care. He balanced the binder with one hand, the other resting comfortably behind his partner, and Mycroft flipped pages until he came to one he liked.

“Now, this is a fine shoe for the office. Oxford style, you see….”

 

************

 

Two Weeks Later…

 

Mycroft drummed his fingers against his knee. It had been the only thing on his mind since he’d awoken that morning. They were going back to Gerard’s little shop in Savile Row to pick up the shoes. And Mycroft wasn’t nervous. Apprehensive, perhaps, but definitely not nervous.

Greg reached out and captured his drumming fingers in his own, pulling them up to his lips in a gentle kiss.

“I promise I’ll love them,” he said. “How could I not?”

“I’m sure you will,” Mycroft replied, keeping his voice even, and adding a small smile to the end. There was nothing to worry about, nothing at all, they’d been made to the exact specifications they’d agreed on, moulded to fit his feet, and Gerard was a master at his craft. Everything would be perfect. Had to be.

Lane pulled the car up in front of Gerard’s shop, and Mycroft climbed out behind Greg, the pair of them standing on the sidewalk as they had two weeks ago. This time, however, there was no uncertainty in Greg’s expression, no doubt as to what, exactly, he’d gotten himself into. Mycroft opened the door for his partner, and Greg mock-bowed to him as he walked through the door, eliciting a quiet chuckle from Mycroft. This trip, aside from the nagging apprehension that had settled in the pit of his stomach, had a decidedly more pleasant beginning.

They were not alone in the shop this time, an assistant was helping a man into a dove grey suit jacket just outside the door marked II. Mycroft withheld the tsk of displeasure at the man, who began to complain about the fit almost immediately, when there was obviously nothing wrong with it. It was vanity and the worst kind of privilege and Mycroft would have deduced the man to within an inch of his life if he had his brother’s level of restraint, because he was so obviously trying to buy his way out of a failing marriage and - oh, this was a surprise - two mistresses. Mycroft refocused his attention to Greg who was admiring a display of neckties.

“See anything you like?” Mycroft asked sotto voce over Greg’s shoulder.

Greg chuckled softly and leaned back against Mycroft, and the warmth and familiarity of it uncoiled the knot in Mycroft’s chest.

“I dunno, maybe. What do you like?”

Mycroft considered the display carefully, colors and patterns held against Greg’s skin in his mind’s eye, roaming over the choices for something that would complement his warm brown eyes. He settled on a forest green, very deep, with a subtle pattern woven into the fabric. He ran it through his fingers for a moment, although he knew the quality, and held it up.

“This, I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. It…” Mycroft had never been comfortable with compliments, either giving or receiving, it was awkward in the extreme when they were genuine. “It enhances your eyes.”

Mycroft could feel the heat seep up from his collar and he cursed his pale skin.

The eyes in question lit up, and Greg grinned, his whole face glowing with pleasure. He took Mycroft’s hand in his and squeezed gently. Mycroft’s face softened, dissolving into a genuine smile.

“Greg, Mr. Holmes,” Gerard interrupted. “I believe I have something for you.”

This was the moment. Mycroft straightened, schooling his features into something more appropriate, and turned.

“Right,” Greg said before Mycroft had a chance to speak. “Let’s see these magical foot coverings.”

Gerard swallowed a laugh, his lips twisted in amusement, and it was a long moment before he could speak.

“This way, please.”

Mycroft knew they would be immaculate. He could even envision them in his mind’s eye, sleek black leather oxfords with a slightly squared toe. He had even thought about what they would look like on Greg. But for reasons he couldn’t quite grasp, the reality of having Greg walking through the shop, past the man in the grey suit coat, and back again, kindled something behind his navel that he was certainly not expecting. And it had only a little to do with the look of pleased awe on Greg’s face.

What was it about those shoes? Mycroft flipped through room after room in the back of his mind palace trying to come up with a logical reason why Greg, wearing those shoes, would cause this particular reaction, and came up with nothing. Infuriating.

“Alright, I admit it, these are the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever put on. Thanks Gerard. Really. I never would have believed.”

“You’re welcome. It’s nice to have an appreciative client.”

Greg pointed at his old shoes, which sat on the floor in front of the green leather chair.

“Take those out and incinerate them. I don’t care if I have to starve, I’ll come here for shoes forever.” He turned to Mycroft. “I s’pose this makes me posh now, eh?”

Mycroft barely heard the exchange. He couldn’t take his eyes off Greg’s feet. In those shoes. They were lovely, yes, and fit well, but it wasn’t like a snug pair of trousers or smart jacket. Those he understood, they showed off Greg’s body to great effect, and his own reacted accordingly. This, however, was mystifying. And quickly becoming an obvious problem, much to his chagrin.

“Yes, thank you very much, Gerard. I’m certain we’ll be in touch soon.”

Mycroft smiled tightly, hoping he wasn’t being incredibly rude, but fearing he really rather was, and finding that he couldn’t be arsed to care. He herded Greg out the door and into the waiting car.

“What the hell, Myc?” Greg pulled away, scooting across the seat.

“Home,” Mycroft barked to Lane before rolling up the privacy glass.

“I didn’t even get a chance to - mmmph”

Mycroft captured Greg’s lips in a heated kiss, pulling him across the seat by his lapels. It wasn’t really so much a kiss as it was artlessly smashing his lips against Greg’s, but the intent was unmistakable. Once Greg caught up, he cupped Mycroft’s cheek, turning the desperate contact into something sweet and lingering, which drove all the desire that had been burning in Mycroft’s belly south.

“Not that I mind,” Greg said casually, his breath coming in small gasps, “But why?”

Mycroft nuzzled under Greg’s ear, tasting the delicate skin there, and began working the top button on his shirt open.

“Nevermind,” Mycroft said. He pushed the shirt aside as the button gave way and buried his nose in the crease of Greg’s neck, licking a stripe up from from his collarbone all the way to his earlobe. Greg manoevered his hands up under Mycroft’s suit jacket, and plucked at his shirt, pulling it up, searching for the skin Mycroft always kept carefully hidden.

The shift in weight should have been his first clue, but Mycroft was the first to admit that when he was aroused, his mental faculties suffered drastically. So he didn’t see it coming until it was too obvious to ignore. Greg pulled back suddenly, leaving Mycroft chilled in the sudden absence, and pulled his leg up so his foot was perching on the seat, one knee bent and his shoe very much on display. Mycroft tried to bite back the moan, failed, and looked up at Greg, embarrassed and terrified.

“Uh huh.” Greg leaned forward and grabbed Mycroft’s tie, then proceeded to pull him across the seat with it until they were nose to nose again.

“It’s whatever, Myc,” Greg said. “Thought we’d been over that.”

“In theory.”

“I’ll debate the particulars later.”

Greg kissed him again, his tongue sliding into Mycroft’s mouth velvet soft and insistent. He turned, leaning back, and pulled Mycroft into his lap. Mycroft followed willingly, straddling Greg’s hips on the bench seat, pressing his erection against Greg’s and rolling his hips, the friction delicious. He leaned down to lick delicately at the shell of Greg’s ear and Greg sucked a breath in through his teeth.

“Ah, Christ, Myc.”

Greg grabbed his arse, hard, and pulled him closer. Mycroft supposed that he should liken this to feeling like a teenager, but that would be disingenuous at best, and settled for being rather pleased that, for once, his libido had surprised his partner.

He fumbled at the remaining buttons on Greg’s shirt. He needed space but didn’t want to relinquish the contact, which made the task exponentially more difficult. As the buttons gave, he pushed the offending clothing aside, following each new inch of exposed skin with kisses until he was kneeling on the floorboards of the car between Greg’s knees.

Mycroft gazed up at his partner, his lover. Greg’s eyes were gentle and full of a fondness Mycroft would never have guessed could be harbored for him. It was a gift, one that he sometimes felt he squandered too readily, though he’d been told countless times he did not.

“Look at you,” Greg said. “All rumpled and begging. It isn’t decent.” He palmed his cock through his trousers, an unnecessary visual aid for the effect of Mycroft’s indecency. He let his legs fall open even further, suggesting, inviting, almost demanding Mycroft’s attention, and he was all too happy to oblige.

Mycroft lifted Greg’s hand away, then kissed his palm before he set it firmly on the seat. Greg grinned as Mycroft tipped his head down and placed a chaste kiss to Greg's thigh, his fingers trailing down to tangle with the laces on Greg's shoes.

It was ridiculous and illogical, but Mycroft reminded himself that most things of this nature were, and Gregory certainly didn't seem to mind. Perhaps not understand, but he didn't mind, and that made all the difference.

His fingers traced the seam of the toe cap, the delicate stitching holding the pieces together, and he pressed his face into Greg's leg. His cock was aching, straining against his zip as he knelt there, fingers tracing stitching, laces, welt.

Mycroft knew it wasn’t just the shoes themselves. It was some heady combination of the actual footwear and Greg’s wearing them, and his pride at being able to provide him that luxury. Knowing, however, did not lessen the potency.

Greg’s hand came to rest on the back of his head and he gently caressed the nape of his neck. There were no words, no question in the gesture, but Mycroft could read Greg’s inquiry nonetheless. And Mycroft was all too happy to acquiesce.  

He made quick work of the belt and trousers and pants, merely sliding fabric aside to expose Greg’s cock, ruddy and leaking. He licked a long stripe up the underside and paused at the tip to taste the precome, then pulled the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue.

Greg hissed, and his fingers on Mycroft’s nape became more insistent, pressing into his flesh. Mycroft hovered, licking, teasing, laving Greg’s cock until it glistened. He looked up at Greg, whose eyes were fixed on his, and he lifted himself back into Greg’s lap, straddling his hips once again. It was not a mere diversion today, an exercise in how best to please his partner, a moment to test technique. There was need seated deep in his gut, an inexorable progression from desire to completion, and Mycroft was ill-prepared for the force of it.

He pushed his own trousers and pants roughly out of the way, his erection bobbing free, and he pressed himself against Greg, his hips rolling of their own accord to find the friction he so desperately needed.

His hands roamed over the expanse of Greg’s chest, smoothing it, revelling in the texture of the hair under his fingertips. He leaned close, belly to belly, so that he could kiss Greg long and deep, willing his appreciation and need to be transmitted through saliva and tongue and lips.

Greg must have received the message because his hand snaked in between their bellies and wrapped around their cocks, giving an experimental tug, and Mycroft groaned obscenely into his mouth. It was exquisite and immense, the feeling of Greg’s hand around them both. Mycroft stilled, the change in pressure and resistance fanning the spark in his belly to flame. He covered Greg’s hand with his, and Greg thrust into the space, sliding along Mycroft’s cock.

“Oh,” Mycroft breathed, his nerves singing with the friction.  He felt like he was floating, the only thing holding him in place Greg’s hand entwined with his and wrapped around their cocks, Greg moving slowly, driving him mad, the blaze of his orgasm pressing against his spine.

It was sudden, when it hit, there was no warning, no slow creep of heat, no purposeful effort, and suddenly he’d crashed through, thick ropes of come spurting onto Greg’s stomach and chest, and he didn’t even have time to warn him. Greg continued to move, and it was too much, much too much, and Mycroft wanted to pull away, but he could see by the set of Greg’s teeth that he was close, too. He bent into Greg’s shoulder, setting his teeth against the bone. Oh, he wanted to watch, wanted to see Greg’s face as he came, but he couldn’t open his eyes, each brush of fingers or cock against his was pleasure-turned-torture-turned-ecstasy.

“Myc,” Greg mumbled before he went rigid under Mycroft, his own release spilling over their hands.

It took several minutes for them to come back to themselves, for their breathing to even out, for their muscles to unclench and ease into the ache that came with unusual sitting positions. They weren’t twenty-five anymore, and their joints protested to the unusual circumstances.

Mycroft rolled off, his head lolling back, and he knew he looked a perfect mess, but he hadn’t the energy to care. Greg chuckled, pulling the square of silk from Mycroft’s breast pocket, and probably using it to clean up. Mycroft didn’t know, he still hadn’t opened his eyes.

Suddenly there was a digital beep, and Lane’s voice floated out of the intercom.

“Would sir care for another loop around the city, or shall we head home now?”

Mycroft pressed a button in the door, then said “Home. And thank you.”

And almost immediately as he released the button, they both burst out laughing.

  
FIN


End file.
